


think out loud

by RenderedReversed



Series: this ain't no fairytale [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Item Shop AU, M/M, Recettear AU, adventurer!Tom, best read in series order, shopkeeper!sorcerer!Harry, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8570278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: Tom learns two valuable lessons that day. Lesson Number One: The Master of Death is not to be disturbed, and Lesson Number Two: pet names and Harry go together like apples and pie.(What do you mean that's a contradiction? Are you trying to imply something?)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [think out loud - размышлять вслух](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15525291) by [Silwery_Wind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silwery_Wind/pseuds/Silwery_Wind)



By the time Tom wakes up, the sun is already high in the sky. He only allows himself this because yesterday’s dungeon dive had been particularly brutal—a full day’s hunt, solo, starting at six in the morning and ending at eleven at night. There were breaks in between, of course, but there had not been any shortage of monsters to fight.

As far as patrons go, Harry pays well. His compensations are fair; his bonuses are generous. Tom doesn’t have anything to complain about, even if he didn’t owe the man a life debt. Harry is clearly well-traveled—he knows exactly what he’s looking for, and all Tom has to worry about is fighting. He might as well have been called a bodyguard instead of an adventurer.

That’s quite alright. The dungeons Harry has been hiring him for have been getting progressively harder (and he has an inkling suspicion that the man is testing him, hmm), so even though his job is simple, it also keeps him on his toes. The other quests he takes on also add a little more variety, though he doesn’t like those quite as much. Spending time with Harry is a bonus all on its own—he’s just so fun to tease, and so full of the most esoteric knowledge... Tom would’ve delighted in picking apart his brain, though restraint is necessary in these cases.

There is one thing that unnerves him, however.

Tom cannot perform magic, but he is among the very few individuals who can see it. Normally, only other sorcerers can sense magic, and that is only with their own. Tom, on the other hand, has a much better passive sense. It doesn’t take him any extra effort to see the movement of magic, and that’s where he has an advantage.

Harry’s magic is—well, there’s nothing that can describe it. He has never seen such fluidity before, such deadly efficiency. It’s like comparing an apprentice to a master, and all other sorcerers are the former. He’s not sure of Harry’s specialization, but regardless, whoever he was before, he must’ve been a famous expert.

Fortunately, adventurers are very good at finding famous experts. Not all powerful sorcerers work in the field, but it’s likely they’ll work with an adventurer at least once…if they have the right qualifications. And with how well Harry moves around in the field, Tom thinks there’s a pretty good chance he might’ve gone by another name.

Any sorcerers Tom has come into personal contact with are eliminated from the list of possibilities. His goal today is to narrow down that list even further.

The Kingdom of Scotia has a fairly expansive territory. Its capital, Hogwarts, is split into four districts: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin, each with the size and populace of a city. Each district has its own concentration, though their residents are free to move between them without impediment.

Gryffindor is home to the Adventurer’s Guild, and indeed has the highest percentage of adventurers as residents. Ravenclaw has the center of information, the Grand Library of Hogwarts. Hufflepuff was renowned for its crafting guilds, and Slytherin for its marketplace. Tom’s destination is Ravenclaw District.

The Grand Library is technically open to the public, though it requires identification and a fee. Fortunately, adventurer cards count as valid identification—it’s one of the many perks of being an adventurer. Of course, the less stars one has on their card, the less likely they are to be trusted…but Tom isn’t starless anymore, which makes this a perfect opportunity to head to the library.

If the Grand Library is a hovel, no architect would dare to call their building anything more than a pile of sticks. Even from several streets away, Tom can see its dominant frame loom above the other rooftops. Eight entire floors are dedicated to preserving the records of history; there really is no question why Hogwarts, specifically Ravenclaw, is considered one of the holy grounds for intellectuals across the land.

The entrance is closed shut, but all Tom needs to do is press a light touch against one of the double doors and they swing right open.

He enters. There are no walls to be seen, only books. When he looks up, he can see the outer rings of a spiral staircase spanning four floors. The ceiling that separates the lower levels from the upper levels is a grand mural of a saintly woman—Tom knows this to be Lady Ravenclaw, one of the four founders of Hogwarts and the first librarian of the Grand Library.

There is no possible way he can simply pick up a book and begin looking. Fortunately, no one expects anyone else to be able to do that, either—one can simply ask the book keeper. True to his name, this is also who one must pay the fee to. Any attempt to open a book or remove it from its bookshelf will be denied elsewise.

Tom pays the fee and asks the book keeper where he can find books on famous contemporary sorcerers, with association to adventurers. At the very least he’ll have a starting point, now—third floor, second quadrant.

When he finally manages to triangulate his section, Tom notices that there’s someone there already. It isn’t too odd—the information certainly isn’t esoteric—but most don’t go looking for people without a name. The Grand Library is public though, so he says nothing and begins to browse the titles.

After two hours and no closer than when he started, Tom wonders if he’s even looking in the right direction. Is his intuition wrong, and Harry isn’t an adventurer? Maybe he’s actually one of those hermit sages who lived in the wild, secluded from all other human contact.

“Young man, I can’t help but notice you have quite the interesting selection of books.”

Tom looks up. It’s the old man, the one who was here before he was. The man is fairly plump around the middle, wearing a suit with an antiquated pattern. His head, practically bald, wrinkles as he raises an eyebrow.

“Looking for something specific?”

Tom smiles politely. “Too specific without any detail, I’m afraid,” he replies before turning back to his notes. He’d fully taken advantage of the library’s automatic sorting and had simply piled up the books he thought would be relevant. After exhausting one, he’d place it back into the bookshelf and watch as it magically rearranged itself.

He’d chosen books about alchemists, healers, and adventurers—sorcerers who would normally not mix. Tom is throwing darts blind, he knows, but there’s little else to do without a lead.

“Perhaps this old man could help, if you like,” the man continues.

Tom mulls it over in his head. There’s really nothing to lose, and his task is innocent enough. There is no reason to suspect this man of anything.

“I’m looking for an accomplished sorcerer who probably has a specialization in alchemy,” he says, and he knows that statement alone is incredibly vague. Alchemy has multiple branches, and ‘accomplished sorcerer’ could mean any sorcerer in this section. “Probably an adventurer, or who has gone on quests before.”

The old man strokes his chin thoughtfully. “An alchemist adventurer? Why, the first—and only—name that comes to mind is Albus Dumbledore! But I suppose that isn’t who you’re looking for, is it?”

“No.”

“Hmm…well, they are quite unusual. You said _probably_ a specialization in alchemy? Is there any other criteria?”

Tom considers it. “Magic,” he finally says. “His skill in controlling his magic must be unparalleled. No matter what specialization he calls his own, he would stand above all other sorcerers in that field—I’m certain of it.”

The old man’s eyes light up. “A contemporary sorcerer?”

“Yes.”

“Then, perhaps, if your words are not a bluff…have you tried looking for heroes?”

The suggestion startles him. “Heroes?” Tom echoes. He’s never given much weight to that title— _heroes_. If they’re strong, he’ll respect their strength, but credibility based on the word, the title, the claim, _hero_? To Tom, that’s practically a swindle of the mind.

“They happen to be my specialty,” the old man replies with a jovial grin. “Though I admit, I am quite biased.” Before Tom can say a word more, the man leaves the section and comes back a moment later with a book in his hands.

“Here we are,” he says, taking a seat beside Tom on the side without a stack of books. _The Hero Kings_ , it reads—exactly the sort of frivolous title that Tom would pass by.

When the man opens the book, Tom’s sight instantly lights up. Its pages practically breathe magic. Light mist spills forth, drifting onto the table and falling to the floor, but Tom, accustomed to seeing things no one else sees, ignores it and keeps his eyes trained on the pages. It would not do for anyone else to know.

He’s heard of these books before. They’re self-updating, which means they can be added to even after publication. Naturally, the magic behind this is complex and not available to every publisher—mostly, only master records for large powers are made with this capability.

“Yes, right after the War would be...”

The old man stops flipping. On the page is a portrait of Albus Dumbledore, moving as he waves his hands over a cauldron. There are several paragraphs below the picture that Tom assumes continues on to the next page.

“We can filter out the non-magical heroes for sorcerers. Perhaps then you’ll find who fits your description?” he suggests.

“A sound idea as any,” Tom replies neutrally.

They search. After Dumbledore comes the other three world-saving heroes: Gellert Grindelwald, Olympe Maxime, and Igor Karkaroff. The old man gives an enthusiastic description of each—sometimes so enthusiastic that Tom has to redirect him. He assumes this is only for the Big Four, popular and contemporary as they are, but the old man does in fact specialize in heroes, and continues the trend for several more.

They near the end of the book without finding a clue. All the portraits depicted are accurate, and none look like Harry, even when their descriptions could match with a little imagination.

Finally, the man turns the page for the last written hero. Instead of a handsome or rugged visage—as was common if the previous pages were anything to go by—Tom is surprised to see a figure completely draped in a black cowl-neck cloak. Even the width of his shoulders is ambiguous, and the motion of wind billowing through the cloth did not help in the least.

“Ah, yes,” the old man sighs. “A very recent addition, but one of my favorites, I must admit. This is the infamous Master of Death, who rose only within the past ten years… Normally that would not be enough to get him written into the book, but, well…”

The Master of Death. The name is familiar. “He was part of the party who defeated Raczidian?” Tom murmurs.

“Indeed,” answers the man. “The Dementor Lord was a terrible, evil wizard who planned horrific things, and he was certainly powerful enough to do them given the time, but the party was assembled quickly, and so—fortunately—most of the world is free from the knowledge of his wrath. Thus, this book does not record most of the members of that party…”

The old man chortles. “Ah, I am guilty, I am guilty. I find that Raczidian is important for one other thing, and that is shooting the Master of Death to fame rather than infamy! Such a sorcerer…I am sincerely glad he was not recorded down in history as a villain.”

“I’m afraid I’m not too familiar with him,” Tom admits.

“No? He is quite the famous adventurer. No news has been heard of him for a year by now, but that is not too odd. He might be on another long quest, yes. Many desire his strength…” The man sighs. “I am a fan. I believe he is at the pinnacle of sorcery! No other can claim to perform the feats that he has! Forget genius, prodigy—”

“His specialization?”

“Unknown,” is the prompt reply. “But I think it safe to assume it lies in offense. No creature has opposed him and lived to tell the tale. Not much is known about him—we cannot even claim his accomplishments for the human race. As you can see, there is not much to see.”

Tom silently agrees. The place where the Master of Death’s face should’ve been is completely black—it’s as if his cloak floats on its own. There’s not even a hint of skin showing somewhere, or an arm, or a leg, or a foot. He could be a demon or a fae and the world would never know.

“Many have tried to claim his identity, and it is an easy illusion to uphold,” the old man continues. “Also, a difficult one. The Master of Death does not walk, you see. He floats above the ground, like a god disdaining mortal soil. Not one foot of his—if he does, in fact, have feet—touches the ground. The constant drain of magic this would cause…well, it isn’t surprising some people call him a monster.”

“So how do they know if it’s him or not?”

“It is quite simple. His signature skill cannot be replicated. It is fact.”

A presumptuous claim, is Tom’s initial thought, but the old man’s expression is deadly serious.

“His name is not an exaggeration. If he chooses, death will follow. His existence in this field is unparalleled—truly, truly unparalleled. Do you know what the life membrane is, young man?”

Tom does. Simply put, every living organism, magical or not, has a life membrane. The common accepted definition for it is a thin protective barrier, skin tight, that prohibits any magic from passing. Such is why a sorcerer cannot control the blood of another, or steal the air from within a person’s lungs. The life membrane prohibits them.

It also causes quite the trouble for healing arts. Wounds that can be seen are fine; they’re external, and so magic can still repair them. However, internal injuries are a healer’s worst nightmare, and disease or sickness is near impossible. That’s why potions have a place in the market—they can do what a healer cannot, treat wounds that cannot be seen from outside.

“The Master of Death,” the old man begins, “is the only known sorcerer in the world—no, in history to be able to pierce the life membrane.”

Such a feat would be impossible, and obvious if done. Tom stares down at the page, watching the portrait play in repeat. That cloak that seemed to only obscure now appears daunting, like the tallest mountain in the world. If he could pierce the life membrane…

If the Master of Death could pierce the life membrane, there would be no defense he could not pass. He could kill with but a thought. Anyone who would meet him would know that they were meeting with a man, a creature, who could kill them in a blink of an eye.

It’s absolutely terrifying.

“No one knows how he does it,” the old man says. “He is a mystery. Perhaps he will be history’s mystery—a wonder of the world, long after he passes. And that is why he interests me so. Consider it a scholar’s curiosity.”

“I would not fault you that,” Tom remarks. As terrifying as it is, it sounds so fantastical, so surreal. Breaking the life membrane? It’s impossible, and that’s fact. Or, it was fact, until the Master of Death came along.

“Oh my, look at the time! I fear I’m late for an appointment.” The old man stands up. “I hope you find who you’re looking for. Ah, I haven’t introduced myself, have I? My name is Horace Slughorn.”

“Thomas Gaunt,” Tom says, shaking his hand. “Tom, for short.”

“Thomas…Tom. A delightful chat; I’ll remember you! So few adventurers come to the library these days. It’s good to see one with intellectual pursuits. Well then, farewell Tom. ‘Til next we meet!”

Slughorn waddles off, leaving Tom to glare at his back. He’d never told the man that he’s an adventurer, so how did he know?

* * *

Life in Hogwarts is the calmest his life has ever been. It is, in part, because no one knows who he is here, but he also thinks it’s because of Harry.

Harry, his benefactor, the one who rescued him from the brink of death. Tom was as good as dead, then. He’d ordered his followers—at least, those who were still alive—to flee, to find life anew elsewhere… He had tricked the more stubborn fellows, and then embarked on the path to Hogwarts, where he saw the slimmest chance of life.

He wasn’t going to make it. Tom had known this deep in his bones. He had succumbed and awaited a silent, pathetic death.

Next he woke, Harry was there: the closest thing to an angel that Tom had ever seen.

He owes him. Tom owes him the life debt, yes, but he also owes him so much more. Harry is unlike anyone who he’s ever met—powerful, capable of great things, yet seeking none of them. Tom wants to take that saintly, chaste life in his hands and cradle it beside his own. Harry’s soul is not meant for the mortal gaze; Tom’s sure of it.

Is it right for him to snoop? Is it right for him to dig for details of a life Harry surely wants to hide? It is certainly not right, but Tom can’t see it as entirely wrong, either. Whatever that life was, it’s part of Harry—it was part of Harry when he lived it, it’s still part of him now after he’s discarded it. That’s what humans are good at, remembering things they don’t want to remember.

“Hi, Tom,” Harry says.

Tom looks up. Harry isn’t even looking at him. Well, he supposes he is the only person to come in after closing. He wonders if he should tell Harry to reinforce his lock with magic. Picking it really is far too easy.

“Evening, Harry,” he greets in return. The smile that has been near absent the entire day sneaks its way back onto his face. “Still cleaning by hand?”

“I’m not supposed to be a sorcerer, Tom.”

“In public,” Tom corrects.

Exasperated, Harry turns to give him a look. “It’s the principle of the thing,” he argues. “Besides, I don’t want to leave any magic residue. Enough of that builds up in the back.”

“You could make a cleansing barrier.”

“ _Ugh_.” Harry sags in defeat. “The shop is getting more popular…s’pose I’ll have to add some defenses to it. Bit of a pain in the ass, though; I’ll need to hunt down a proper stone…don’t want to buy one, they’re a total rip off. ‘Sides, some dealers are so shady these days…”

Tom laughs softly and sneaks up behind him, draping himself over Harry’s much smaller body. “Sounds like you need to hire an adventurer.”

“Sod off.”

Tom does not, in fact, sod off.

That’s how it generally is with Harry. Anything to do with magic, he usually wants to do it himself. His argument is that he gets a better deal that way, and get him really started and he’ll prattle on and on about how, exactly, the price is inflated by at least five hundred percent. It both amazes Tom and makes him wonder—what is Harry’s specialization?

“…Harry?” he asks. The formation of a thought lingers on the very outskirts of his mind.

“Hmm?” asks Harry, head buried in his arms.

“Do you make potions here?”

That’s right—Tom’s walked in on Harry at nearly every hour of the day by now, but he’s never seen him brew potions before. He’s sure they're being made—Hedwig's sells hundreds of them a day, and on their dungeon runs, Harry always stops to pick up plenty of potion ingredients. Tom's just never seen those ingredients be used or sold. He's not even sure if Harry owns a cauldron.

“Nah,” he says. “I don’t have the patience for potions. I ship the ingredients off to an apothecary and get a custom order. They give me a good discount for it.”

Tom’s heart beats just a little bit faster. He’s always thought that Harry cured the poison of his wound with a potion. That’s the obvious answer, because by then the poison had spread to every corner of his body. From what he knows of healing arts, they shouldn’t have worked because of the life membrane…

He thought Harry had made a peerless potion, and so assumed he was a potioneer. Potion-making is, after all, a subset of the alchemic arts; it fits with his tendency to create things. But that theory can’t apply if Harry doesn’t make his own potions. The only thing left is healing arts, which couldn’t have worked—

 _Then again_. Then again, his wound was technically an open wound, and those could definitely be healed with magic. Tom isn’t a sorcerer, so he’s definitely not a healer—he can’t say for sure how that interaction would go.

The Master of Death is supposed to be the only sorcerer capable of piercing the life membrane. After Slughorn left, Tom did a little more research on him—witness after witness reported the exact same thing; there’s no denying it, the Master of Death’s unique skill is real. However, all the reports were only of offensive uses, the exact opposite of healing arts.

So it’s impossible either way. No sorcerer has a dual specialization in two opposing arts. It can’t be.

“Hey, Tom,” Harry says.

“Mmm?”

“How good are you against golems?”

“Golems?” Tom smiles coldly. “A snail would give me more problems than a golem.”

“Okay, good. Because I think we’re going to have to go to the Golem Resting Grounds.”

Ah, there it is. Harry never fails to surprise him. “What for?” Tom asks.

“Well I need a ward stone, and if I’m going to go through all the trouble of making one, I might as well go for broke. The Golem Resting Grounds have the best slabs—you can’t find better anywhere else—well at least in Scotia you can’t. Point is, I hope you like golems, because there’s going to be a lot of them. For obvious reasons.”

Tom gets most of Harry’s explanation—really, he does—but mostly he’s just caught by how adorable Harry is when he rambles.

“They’re just some pile of rocks,” Tom says, regardless of the fact that many adventurers would have trouble against _one_ _golem_ , never mind a dozen of them, and forget a _nest_ of them. “We can go wherever you want to.”

Harry nods his head faithfully. “Okay. I’ll come by in a few days. The next batch of potions is coming in and it’d be good to take some—would you get off of me already!”

 _About time he noticed._ Tom laughs, but obliges in favor of raiding Harry’s fridge. “What’s for dinner, darling?”

He can hear Harry stumble at the pet name. It only makes his grin wider.

“Who said you’re invited?!”

“I am when I make half of it.”

“With _my_ groceries!”

“Oh, is that what’s bothering you? We can go shopping together tomorrow, if you like.”

“I actually _would_ like that, you freeloader!”

Tom waits.

Harry scrambles. “Wait no that's not what I meant—!”

He'll admit he doesn’t know what a home feels like, but if he did, he thinks it would feel a little something like this.

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy, Tom. Ooooh boy... If only he knew.
> 
> Misunderstandings aside, we will not be getting much of Tom's PoV (only when things go down on his side when Harry's not there), so that's my disclaimer. Next time we get back to Harry and some shop-keeping business (with Tom present, of course)!
> 
> I estimate that it will be a relatively longer oneshot, so don't expect it within the next two days...... A new (recurring) character will be introduced, too ;)! You are 100% allowed to guess, and I will 100% tell you if you are right or wrong. I'll be impressed if you get it right tbh.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [think out loud](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9691952) by [MTKiseki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MTKiseki/pseuds/MTKiseki)




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